


The Advantages of Being An Extrovert

by oneatatime



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, University AU, shameless university au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 21:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20396254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneatatime/pseuds/oneatatime
Summary: “Wstbl?” he said articulately, as said tweedy teacher’s aide landed giggling in his lap, feet to one side, arms draped around Crowley’s neck.





	The Advantages of Being An Extrovert

Anthony J Crowley eeled his way between the somewhat inhabited chairs, until he got to the empty set of three that he could sprawl over properly. Needed to enjoy his drink by himself. It had some kind of fancy, super cool name, like ‘atomic rowboat’ or ‘exploding dungeon’. It was yellow and pink, and had a little slice of pineapple stuck in the top with an umbrella. 

Other people might go around the crowd, but not him. He could do that because he had long, skinny legs. Clad in the latest skinny jeans, of course, even though most people here had dressed up to the nines (or possibly just the eights, when it came to Michael). Crowley could get away with it because Crowley was cool, and anything he wore was automatically cool. (People didn’t need to know just how much panting and wheezing it’d taken him to get into them that morning. They also definitely didn’t need to know that next door had offered to lend him an inhaler. )

He grinned at this cool person, and tossed off a salute at that one, and tried his hardest to pretend that he was having Fun with a capital I’mAnExtrovertReallyIAm. At least it was dark enough that he could sort of hide, back here, behind everyone. Most people were out on the dance floor, doing some weird kind of dance. Or at the bar, failing to flirt with the cute bartenders who were totally together. Crowley’d gotten hijacked by a runaway conga line last time he’d tried dancing, and that was never happening again. 

Coming here had been a massive mistake. He hated parties. He should be back in his room, working on that stupid Ancient Lit essay, to make the <s>stupid</s> <s>smart</s> <s>no hang on he’s actually incredibly stupid it’s all well and good understanding Chaucer but imagine not knowing what an emoji is</s> tweedy little teacher’s aide happy with him. Azorra? Airy Fail? If he alcohol more drank he’d figure it in. Out. Out, that’s it. 

Yeah, something like that. Maybe he could ask good ol’ whatsisface for help with it –

“Wstbl?” he said articulately, as said tweedy teacher’s aide landed giggling in his lap, feet to one side, arms draped around Crowley’s neck. His plump little bottom was arranged comfortably on Crowley’s bony thighs. The man was wearing a tartan shirt and he smelled like old books and vanilla cupcakes. Oh, no. He smelled _smashing._ Crowley fumbled for a spot to put his drink. Spare seat. Yes, that’d do. 

“I hope you don’t mind, Crowley.” There was an enchanting flush to his little round face, but his voice was apologetic as he leaned closer. “There’s someone I’d rather not be backed into a corner by.” 

“N-no. No, that’s fine. It’s good, really,” Crowley managed in response. Mirror Fell knew his _name._ Yeah, of course it was okay if this Christian Bale sat on his lap, he didn’t mind at all, always fancied himself as something of a white knight, anyway. 

It was only as Fazirerale’s lips touched his that he realised just what he’d agreed to. 

Well. Never let it be said that Anthony J Crowley shies away from a kiss. He found his hands settling on hips with the suggestion of muscle underneath, and pleasantly rounded on top. Exactly the right size and shape for his hands. Pretty amazing, really. There was a soft gasp into his mouth from the man on his lap, and soft nibbles along the line of his lower lip. 

Crowley’s eyes were wide, but then he let himself haze off and just enjoy this. 

He didn’t really know what he was doing, of course. He’d kissed a few people, been kissed by a few more. Been shoved against a couple walls. Most of the time it was an invasion. Nice enough, sure. He liked kissing.

This one, though.

This was a conversation. 

Peter Mail’s lips were insistent, but gentle. They said that he wasn’t going anywhere, and he was going to enjoy this, but he’d only go as far as Crowley wanted. It was obnoxious, because really, who _does_ this? But it was polite, too. Respectful. He didn’t plunder, he didn’t force, he just encouraged.

It left room for Crowley to respond. To encourage back. His tongue slid against Tartan Swale’s, and it was heavenly. The guy tasted exactly like vanilla cupcakes, and his hair was as soft as a cloud through Crowley’s seeking fingers. 

It was terrible when he pulled back at last, his hands bracketing Crowley’s face. 

Crowley smiled at him breathlessly.

“Sorry,” Anearer Tail said, but he looked just as breathless, and his eyes were dancing. “Thank you. Must dash.” 

He scrambled to his feet, and Crowley noticed absently that the big buff guy who’d been staring at them turned away, shoulders slumping. 

Yearer Wail took a step away from him. Another. Making his plump little bottom wiggle. Crowley’s thighs felt suddenly cold. 

His future was disappearing as the man’s silhouette reduced. Hell. What was his name again? He had to find, find, thing. Thing you do with your mouth and your tongue. Not kissing. Words! That’s it! He had to find word! Had to find the name and some words to put with it!

“Aziraphale!” he blurted at last, and Aziraphale turned immediately, a smile dawning on his face. 

“Yes?” 

“See you sometime soon?” 

“We have class tomorrow,” said the hopelessly stupid man who’d just had his tongue talking to Crowley’s. 

Crowley near howled, “Not like _that_.”

“Oh! Yes!”

“_Good._” 

He’d been in Hell, and now he wasn’t. 

Crowley _loved_ parties.


End file.
